


The Angel in the TARDIS

by jacksqueen16



Category: Doctor Who, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, M/M, Marking, Superwho, the angel's mark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 15:58:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1905030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacksqueen16/pseuds/jacksqueen16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Castiel felt the sound in his bones before he heard it: a whirring wheeze that could signal both hope and fear throughout the galaxy." After learning of Dean Winchester's death from Metatron, Castiel seeks to ease his pain by calling on an old friend. Written for The Collectress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Angel in the TARDIS

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thecollective](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecollective/gifts).



> Unbeta'ed. All mistakes are mine!

The sky was dark as Castiel stumbled out of the heavenly portal. He could hear Sam Winchester’s pleas for help in the back of his mind, but he pushed the prayers away in anger. What help could he be to Sam? Dean Winchester was dead. He could not offer condolences when he felt as though his heart had been ripped from his chest. His words of comfort would have been as empty as Dean’s lifeless body. 

Sam would have to suffer alone for now. Castiel would go to him when he was ready. But first, he had to do something.

The portal closed behind him with a snap, and he straightened up, the borrowed trench coat heavier than usual. It tugged on his shoulders like the weight of the world was in the very stitching. He pulled it closer around him, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling his human form was feeling from the portal. Nausea, it was called. How irritating. 

Castiel put a hand into the pocket of the trench coat and fiddled with the folded scrap of paper there, his fingers moving over it almost reverently. He didn’t pull the note out, but rotated it slowly, turning it over and over. 

He took in his surroundings. The portal had spit him out into the same park where Gadreel had shown him the door to heaven—only now it was devoid of humanity, a graveyard in the dark. Swings moved slightly in the wind, and his sensitive ears picked up the movements of a squirrel rustling in a nearby trashcan for scraps. 

Castiel looked up into the murky clouds that hid the moon and used as much of his power as he dared—too much, and his stolen grace would evaporate before he had finished what he meant to do; too little, and the call would only echo in his own ears. He let the invisible, silent cry out into the air, and imagined that it moved like fire through the layers of the universe. 

He sat on a bench and waited. Hands clasped, he watched the sky. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that before he had met Dean Winchester, he wouldn’t have bothered to imagine anything. The call would have been a demand, not a supplication that swirled through the stars like tendrils of flame. Imagination, impatience, anger, sadness: signs of humanity. 

He had never felt less like an angel of the Lord than he did tonight. Even during his brief stint as a human, without any grace or wings, he still had the Winchesters. Now, without Dean to care for and fight for, what was his grace worth? He was reduced to the basest sentiment, one he had never imagined to feel this deeply. So this was grief. 

Castiel felt the sound in his bones before he heard it: a whirring wheeze that could signal both hope and fear throughout the galaxy. It had been two thousand years since he had last seen the blue box and the man who called it home, but he had never forgotten the racket it made. 

Across the playground, the box began to materialize, slowly stabilizing itself as it landed. The noise stopped, and for a moment nothing happened. The light at it’s top glowed steadily, brighter than anything else. Then the door opened, and out stepped a tall, gangly creature with tousled hair and glasses. The man who called himself the Doctor had obviously changed forms since the last time they had met. Castiel stood up.

“Well hello!” said the Doctor, closing the door of his box behind him. He put his hands into his pinstriped suit pockets, and beamed at the angel. “It’s been a long time, hasn't it? Castiel, right?” 

This regeneration was much more chipper than the version Castiel recalled. “That is my name,” he replied. 

“You look a little different than you did before. New vessel?” the Doctor asked. 

“You appear different as well. How did you know that it was me?” Castiel found himself intrigued—another facet of Dean’s character he had taken upon himself. 

“Oh, I can see right through the, uh…what is the demons call it? A meat suit? Rather horrid name, if you ask me. They lack style. Actually, what you should called these vessels is a temporary tranfiguratory cask. Much more accurate from a scientific-y point of view—”

“I will keep that in mind, Time Lord,” Castiel said. “I summoned you because I need your help.” 

“Yes,” the Doctor’s eyes softened as he took his glasses off and folded them carefully. “So the psychic paper told me. What can I do?” 

“I need to borrow your machine. I need to go back to before I met Dean Winchester. I need to…” the words ran out, and Castiel took a deep breath. 

“Now listen,” the Doctor said carefully, his lips forming thin, serious words, “you know how the time continuum works. Your kind is the only species that understands it as I do. If I take you back in the TARDIS, you know that anything that happens will affect this future. Not just your personal future, but possibly the future of the planet.” 

“I am aware.” 

The Doctor regarded him with solemnity, and for a second the angel wondered if Time Lords could read minds. “I know what it’s like to lose someone,” he said with care, and Castiel’s insides clenched painfully. “I know the temptation to go back and try to make things different. It isn’t always a wise decision.” 

“If I had the strength, I would do it myself, Doctor!” Castiel’s words cracked like thunder, and he wished more than ever that he had his wings. “I have nothing left. I need you to do this for me.” 

The Doctor ran a hand through his hair and nodded. “All right. Come on then.” 

They entered the box. The door clicked shut behind Castiel, and he breathed in the air of the time machine. Energies from a million different galaxies and planets radiated in the main chamber, and he was momentarily invigorated. 

“Where to?” 

“Five years ago…I pulled Dean Winchester out of hell. I placed his soul back into his body.” 

“Do you remember the location?” 

Castiel remembered everything. “A field. Near Pontiac, Illinois.” 

The Doctor pulled a few levers here and there. The box began to shake minutely, and it leaned to one side. Castiel steadied himself against the railing, watching the Time Lord interact with the machine, his exuberance at complete odds with what the angel planned to do. 

He really did remember everything. If only he had known when he had been told to fetch Dean from the Pit that his entire existence would be altered… The moment he had found the oldest Winchester’s soul, lost and ripped and forsaken, he had felt something shift. He hadn’t even seen Dean’s face or heard his voice, but things were suddenly different. Castiel closed his eyes and thought of that day five years before, when he had reached out to the stranger with his true form. Reaching, reaching, past the devils of Dean’s past and present, grasping the man’s shoulder, and pulling pulling pulling. Dean’s soul had been heavy with pain and suffering, but still Castiel pulled him from perdition. The journey out of hell had taken so long that Castiel’s form had burnt Dean. It hadn’t been intentional—it was merely mistake he had not foreseen—but it had given him the first surge of delight he’d ever known. 

Later, when he had tried to speak to the newly awakened Dean, he had felt his first disappointment. Delight and disappointment. The beginning of a journey to free will. 

He’d felt similar delight every time he was around Dean. It had taken him some time to understand. Dean bore his mark. Dean was _his_. 

The scrap of folded paper suddenly weighed ten tons. Castiel swallowed the lump in his throat.

“You didn’t travel this way that last time we met,” remarked the Doctor, shattering Castiel’s reverie. 

“I did not need to.” 

“Right…” he twirled a few knobs, and hooked his left foot around what looked remarkably like the Impala’s hand break. “Well, better brace.” 

Castiel gripped the hand rail harder as the entire box shuddered violently, barreling through time and space. It was far less dignified than the travel he was used to, but he couldn’t deny the genius of the Gallifreyans.

Without warning, a searing pain radiated through Castiel’s chest. His head began to pound and he let go of the railing, falling to his knees. The Doctor probably noticed, but Castiel heard nothing save the same voice over and over. 

**So what, I'm Thelma and you're Louise and we're just gonna hold hands and drive off this cliff together?**

_Dean. Dean, I am sorry you are dead. This hurts too much. I did not know it would hurt this much. This is worse than anything else we went through together._

**I've had more fun with you in the past twenty-four hours than I've had with Sam in years.**

_You showed me so much. I was supposed to show you, guide you, but that’s not what happened at all. I was not supposed to love you._

**Cas, we've talked about this. Personal space?**

_I did not want space from you. Only to be closer, closer, always closer. To put my hand on your mark and remind you who I really am._

“CASTIEL!” 

Castiel opened his eyes and realized he was sprawled on the TARDIS floor, hands spread out to catch his fall. The Gallifreyan was hunched over his, shaking his shoulders. Discomfort lanced through Castiel's stomach and if there had been food in it, he would have vomited. 

"Something tells me that your kind aren't supposed to go through time this way. Did you know?" the Doctor's voice was harsh, but Castiel detected notes of worry. "Can you sit up?"

"Are we still traveling?" Castiel ignored Dean's voice that was still resonating in his head. The machine didn't seem to be shuddering any longer. 

"Yes, she's just leveled out. We're on our way, but...Castiel, I think maybe we should stop. Something is obviously wrong."

"We cannot stop. I must deliver it!" Castiel began to heave, his back hunched against the pain. 

"Deliver what? Hold on." The Doctor bounded away and within seconds, the discomfort eased up. Castiel took a deep breath and for the first time in a long time, thought that an alcohol-induced nap might feel really, really good. 

"Are you okay?" The Doctor was back, and helping Castiel to his feet. Cas grabbed the railing to keep himself up. The pain was gone, but his legs didn't seem to be working quite right. 

"I believe I will be in a moment," said Castiel curtly. "Did you stop the machine?" 

"You know I did," said the Gallifreyan, pulling out his glasses and perching them on his slim nose. "The continuum was affecting you negatively. Why didn't you say anything?"

Castiel slumped against the railing. "I thought that there might be some side affect or other, but I did not expect it to feel like that." The Doctor looked at him expectantly, and Cas sighed. He was too tired to lie. "When we travel as angels, it happens instantaneously. A snap of the fingers and we're somewhere else. Our wings take us anywhere we want in time and space. But traveling this way is rudimentary at best." 

The Doctor frowned, and his hair seemed to stand up even straighter, as though it too were insulted. 

"I am sorry, but it is true, Doctor," Castiel continued. "At any rate, this vestigial vessel, for as impressive as it is to humans and other species, was simply not built to transport a being like me. We feel time differently than others. It is part of our grace, and to go too slowly is to invite torture. As it is, I find my grace...depleted." 

The Doctor crossed his arms. "So if you knew that already, why did you even bother to ask me? What is so important that you have to go back, even with your limited—or your absent—whatever?"

The angel turned and braced his forearms against the railing. The nausea was passing, but a feeling of defeat slowly grew in its place. He wasn't sure which was worse. 

"I am delivering a note to myself. To my past self. I...before, I developed a close relationship with Dean Winchester. And now he is dead."

Saying the words aloud was entirely too easy, and he felt a stab of guilt. 

"What's the note for?" 

"A warning. I...I never knew that losing someone would feel like this. If I can prevent myself from getting too close, if I can—" The sentence caught in his throat, choking and tight. 

The Doctor laughed harshly. "If you can tell yourself not to get attached, then you erase yourself of the grief you feel now? That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard, especially coming from you." 

Castiel looked up, celestial anger and frustration and sorrow oozing from his human pores. "What?"

"You can't undo this pain. As a time traveler, you will still remember the alternate line of reality. You already lived it. You know this, Castiel. We aren't so different, your kind and mine. We are apart from the others in our marrow-deep connection with the universe. So what will this trip really accomplish?" 

"I want to forget." 

"You'll nearly kill yourself on a fool's errand is what you'll do." 

"And what about you, Doctor? You traveled with a companion before. What happened to her? To all those who enter this box and find themselves changed? You said you’ve lost people. You lose them, and I know now it is a painful thing. I have grown since the last time we met, and I understand humanity a lot better."

"You forget I am not human," the Doctor growled. 

"Just as good as one when it comes to heart and soul. I am an angel of the Lord, Gallifreyan, and I have seen your mind. You, too, have wished you could undo many things." Castiel felt his strength return as his temper grew, an enraged animal beating against the bars of its cage. 

"Enough!" 

Cas stood up straight, and felt the note in his pocket. The edges of the paper were rough where it had been ripped in haste from a book in Metatron's office. 

_Distance yourself from the Winchesters. Distance yourself from Dean Winchester. Attachment to humanity results in pain greater than you can imagine. Follow your orders. You are an angel of the Lord._

"I'm sorry for your pain, but I believe you will find it much worse if you complete the journey. Let’s not find out how much worse. I’m taking you back to your present," the Doctor turned away, back stiff. He touched the control panel carefully, almost reverently for a moment, before he began to turn the appropriate knobs. 

Castiel bit his lip, and marveled at the regret he felt for reminding the Doctor of his lost friends. Another emotion to catalogue. 

The Doctor flipped the last switch without warning, and as the TARDIS shuddered, Castiel steeled his heart against what he knew would come. More of Dean's words, mocking and merciless, ready to haunt him for the remainder of his existence. But the voice did not come, and neither did the gut-wrenching pain. Instead, he saw Sam Winchester.

Sam was praying. Stereotypical praying, like something in a devout household or a Norman Rockwell painting: on his knees at the side of his bed, hands clasped fervently. His thoughts echoed in Castiel's head, ringing like a church bell. 

_"Cas, I don't know what to do. Dean isn't dead! But...something is wrong and I need your help. Please, please Cas, I'm so scared. I need you. Dean needs you. Please come back to us. Oh God, I hope you're all right. Cas? Can you hear me? Cas, I know you like answering Dean's prayers better than mine, but just this once...please, please hear me."_

Sam's large form folded in on itself, consumed by uncertainty, and faded before Castiel's eyes. He glanced at the Doctor, and only then did he feel the discomfort of the journey begin in his lungs. The Time Lord was watching him carefully as he piloted the machine. Just as the anguish began to build like a stoked fire through his veins and Castiel thought that he might collapse again, the wheezing of the TARDIS landing began, and the pain was gone. He raised a hand to his heart and felt the steady beating. 

_Dean isn't dead. Dean isn't dead. Dean. Is. Not. Dead._

"I don't want to part in anger," the Doctor said. 

"Neither do I."

"What will you do now, Castiel? Nothing I wouldn’t do, I hope,” he attempted lightheartedness.  

Cas held back the smile that was beginning to creep across his face. "I heard Sam. Just now. Dean Winchester's brother. He is praying, and I believe that things may not be as...bleak as I thought." 

The Doctor nodded, his face pensive. "Well. I'm sorry that we were unable to complete your original mission." 

"Do not be sorry," said Castiel, retrieving the note. He opened it and read his own scrawled hand. "You were right. It was a fool's errand."

"We are all blinded by grief sometimes," said the Doctor. He stopped for a moment as though he weren’t sure he should continue. “But…no matter who leaves us and how much it hurts, we have our memories. Like I said, changing the past isn’t always wise. And besides, isn’t the journey worth it in the end?" 

Castiel thought of the last five years, and how pulling Dean out of the Pit had changed everything. The Winchesters had taught him that there was family and loyalty outside of heaven. There was love outside of heaven. 

"Yes, it might be," he replied. "The journey isn't over yet. I have a Winchester to visit."

_Dean isn't dead. Our story isn't over. And even if it were..._

He pocketed the note and thought that it had all been worth it.


End file.
